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June 10, 2012
Summer, by its own admittance, is a nostogia upon itself.
How long have we longed for the longest day,
only to have it slowly dying upon its arrival,
and twighlight creeps upon its edges like a cancer
and that blackness is more pronounced as the summer stretches on,
whilst we basque in its already disappearing memory.
Our love letters to life are scented in pomegranate,
And the envelope of truth remains unopened.
We live, we love, we lose all by the expectations set forth in a past deed.
How long have we longed for the longest day,
only to have it slowly dying upon its arrival,
and twighlight creeps upon its edges like a cancer
and that blackness is more pronounced as the summer stretches on,
whilst we basque in its already disappearing memory.
Our love letters to life are scented in pomegranate,
And the envelope of truth remains unopened.
We live, we love, we lose all by the expectations set forth in a past deed.
June 11, 2012
It was the ashen snow from the chimneys that made me think of you.
A white and black photo reminder
of spirits and ghosts,
of ascensions to heaven,
of dismal judgments that counts Dante's circles as measurements
against those who threw themselves against the fence,
who lost the echo of their whistles somewhere beyond the guardtower and traintracks
of cold and rusted iron where the poppies, despite the stench,
undisputably grow.
A white and black photo reminder
of spirits and ghosts,
of ascensions to heaven,
of dismal judgments that counts Dante's circles as measurements
against those who threw themselves against the fence,
who lost the echo of their whistles somewhere beyond the guardtower and traintracks
of cold and rusted iron where the poppies, despite the stench,
undisputably grow.
June 12, 2012
Let me be the one to tell you
Life is fair.
The feeble perish
The resourced blossum
The angered retaliate
The loved comfort
The disenfranchised get tired
The dominant get empowered
The mistrusted mistrust
The trusted believe
and the day is as long or as short as the firmaments allow.
This is life.
And life is fair in its
equal inopportunity
equal injustice
equal bias
for all
We salute the brainchilds of fairness and justice
and feel the impact of their harsh and heavy hands,
stained in nondiscrimnatory ink and sweat
that follow the ribbons of veins that circulate
round an imperfect body,
while the teacher, stiffling a yawn as the dreaded darkness comes,
moves aside his books
of Gandhi and King and Carson's Silent Spring
To nail to the wall the prim and proper gaze of Robespierre,
lips curled slightly like Mona Lisa's,
eyes as gentle as the torrential rain.
Life is fair.
The feeble perish
The resourced blossum
The angered retaliate
The loved comfort
The disenfranchised get tired
The dominant get empowered
The mistrusted mistrust
The trusted believe
and the day is as long or as short as the firmaments allow.
This is life.
And life is fair in its
equal inopportunity
equal injustice
equal bias
for all
We salute the brainchilds of fairness and justice
and feel the impact of their harsh and heavy hands,
stained in nondiscrimnatory ink and sweat
that follow the ribbons of veins that circulate
round an imperfect body,
while the teacher, stiffling a yawn as the dreaded darkness comes,
moves aside his books
of Gandhi and King and Carson's Silent Spring
To nail to the wall the prim and proper gaze of Robespierre,
lips curled slightly like Mona Lisa's,
eyes as gentle as the torrential rain.
June 13, 2012
(written 2000, reworked 2012)
I read tea leaves and you read palms, but you drink coffee and I wear gloves, and our eyes never meet when we talk.
I read tea leaves and you read palms, but you drink coffee and I wear gloves, and our eyes never meet when we talk.
June 14, 2012
the feather
flies straight
the arrow
that shoots
the fowl
that supplies
the feather.
and so,
feathers beget feathers,
and yet,
we believe
we can discriminate
between
power
and pity.
In the kamikazi dogfight of the heavens, only the dodo survives . . .
flies straight
the arrow
that shoots
the fowl
that supplies
the feather.
and so,
feathers beget feathers,
and yet,
we believe
we can discriminate
between
power
and pity.
In the kamikazi dogfight of the heavens, only the dodo survives . . .
June 15, 2012
you can not
love ha
lf a person
you can not
take the muscle
s and
for get the bon
es t il the hyenas come
and fir eants overtake the chasm
you can not accept
the h
and but not
the fo ot the live
r but not
m eaty he
art
the ha
lf a person
that you enjoy
to dis
regard t
he r
e
s t.
If a pers o
n i
s
a person.
you can not
sel ect from
the men
u
so
that the
ch
ef
must cu
sto m
ize
the or
de
r
m ake an e
w the di sh
you can
not
love
ha
lf a person
If a person is
a
person.
Else
we a
re but frag
ments
of
sen ten
ces
sans me
a
ning s
con
junctions
wi
out anyth
ing
to link
the h
andbutnot
the fo
ot
and the dea
th wi
th out
the life.
like a candle blown out by the emphatic reading of poetry,
where we think we understand the edges, and feel the inner meaning,
where letters combined, though misspelled, take on whole new realities,
and judgment is as consensed as an artist's dream.
love ha
lf a person
you can not
take the muscle
s and
for get the bon
es t il the hyenas come
and fir eants overtake the chasm
you can not accept
the h
and but not
the fo ot the live
r but not
m eaty he
art
the ha
lf a person
that you enjoy
to dis
regard t
he r
e
s t.
If a pers o
n i
s
a person.
you can not
sel ect from
the men
u
so
that the
ch
ef
must cu
sto m
ize
the or
de
r
m ake an e
w the di sh
you can
not
love
ha
lf a person
If a person is
a
person.
Else
we a
re but frag
ments
of
sen ten
ces
sans me
a
ning s
con
junctions
wi
out anyth
ing
to link
the h
andbutnot
the fo
ot
and the dea
th wi
th out
the life.
like a candle blown out by the emphatic reading of poetry,
where we think we understand the edges, and feel the inner meaning,
where letters combined, though misspelled, take on whole new realities,
and judgment is as consensed as an artist's dream.
June 16, 2012
Socrates was right,
His lips now glossed over in
hemlocked marble,
so I will again become
illiterate
so that I might read
the world.
His lips now glossed over in
hemlocked marble,
so I will again become
illiterate
so that I might read
the world.
June 17, 2012
It is as if there were only air and dreams,
and then you came to be.
As if there was a conversation during a forest walk,
with adolescent music filling our walkmans,
and ostensibly deep questions on values, and dreams, and judgments
and then, with a passion and a pressing close,
you came to be.
the idea swam into existence
and planted itself into the wonder that is you.
but how you outgrew the idea so quickly
is a wonder in itself.
how my brain had no way of envisioning you
is the miracle of your majestic and inconceivable birth.
You are beyond all our walks
beyond all our values
beyond all our dreams
beyond all of judgments,
a wonderment in yourself.
and then you came to be.
As if there was a conversation during a forest walk,
with adolescent music filling our walkmans,
and ostensibly deep questions on values, and dreams, and judgments
and then, with a passion and a pressing close,
you came to be.
the idea swam into existence
and planted itself into the wonder that is you.
but how you outgrew the idea so quickly
is a wonder in itself.
how my brain had no way of envisioning you
is the miracle of your majestic and inconceivable birth.
You are beyond all our walks
beyond all our values
beyond all our dreams
beyond all of judgments,
a wonderment in yourself.
June 18, 2012
(Written 2003, revised 2012)
Walk past the killing fields, the oil spills, the famished,
the residents of the streets, the unemployed, the smallpox
patients, the corporate scandals,
the greed, the human rights
violations, the court battles, the domestic
abuse, the racial
inequality, the prejudice and bias, the nuclear
weapons
buildups, the arsons and rapes and abductions and media
blitzes,
the jihads and crusades, the cold war, and the hot war,
and the war without
words that sucks
the soul out of the living...
Walk past it all, and
you have a beautiful world.
Walk past the killing fields, the oil spills, the famished,
the residents of the streets, the unemployed, the smallpox
patients, the corporate scandals,
the greed, the human rights
violations, the court battles, the domestic
abuse, the racial
inequality, the prejudice and bias, the nuclear
weapons
buildups, the arsons and rapes and abductions and media
blitzes,
the jihads and crusades, the cold war, and the hot war,
and the war without
words that sucks
the soul out of the living...
Walk past it all, and
you have a beautiful world.
June 19, 2012
It is not as if I do not know where my memories are kept,
somewhere above, in a cobwebbed attic bed,
between the hot boiler and the cool air condenser,
amidst the pipes and the squeeks,
not far from where the morning dove roosts atop a cracked shingle.
They are kept atop a shelf of my own making,
with the remaining planks of warped wood, salvaged from the rain,
and the rusted nails I picked up from the carnival that left town in a rush
They are in a dark and musty place
where eyes sit between arhaic legs that
scurry deeper into the dark shadows where
no light, no heavenly beams, no celestrial shades
have time enough to penetrate.
That is where my memories live and hopefully die,
in the duct-taped box, with a faded lable
and a layer of dust that suggest that the box itself had been forgotten
amidst the steam and frost in the foreground.
somewhere above, in a cobwebbed attic bed,
between the hot boiler and the cool air condenser,
amidst the pipes and the squeeks,
not far from where the morning dove roosts atop a cracked shingle.
They are kept atop a shelf of my own making,
with the remaining planks of warped wood, salvaged from the rain,
and the rusted nails I picked up from the carnival that left town in a rush
They are in a dark and musty place
where eyes sit between arhaic legs that
scurry deeper into the dark shadows where
no light, no heavenly beams, no celestrial shades
have time enough to penetrate.
That is where my memories live and hopefully die,
in the duct-taped box, with a faded lable
and a layer of dust that suggest that the box itself had been forgotten
amidst the steam and frost in the foreground.
June 20, 2012
(revised August 27)
e E e
x x x X x x x
I i I S S
T
. . - . . - . . .
June 27, 2012
And so it begins
with not a word,
but an utterance
a sound connected in dipthong
to produce a meaning coloured in intonation and indulation.
It is the variety that makes meaning,
the up or the down,
the discrimination between left or right,
the dichotomy that says this is this
and that is that...
or more specifically,
this is this
and this other thing is not this.
This is our safety, that which separates us from pure biological instinct,
it is the ability to define ourselves by
what
we
are not.
So,
Silent Ones,
utter something,
or live and die
in the vague misnomers of others.
with not a word,
but an utterance
a sound connected in dipthong
to produce a meaning coloured in intonation and indulation.
It is the variety that makes meaning,
the up or the down,
the discrimination between left or right,
the dichotomy that says this is this
and that is that...
or more specifically,
this is this
and this other thing is not this.
This is our safety, that which separates us from pure biological instinct,
it is the ability to define ourselves by
what
we
are not.
So,
Silent Ones,
utter something,
or live and die
in the vague misnomers of others.
June 28, 2012
Adam's first job
was already the precursor of our doom.
He categorized like a great library of the mind
those with fur or wings or hoofs,
segregating so that he might distinguish,
stereotype,
assume....
protect himself through knowledge.
And that knowledge
took the shape of an apple,
and it dripped a juice
that made its way down the crevices
of his face,
following his muscles in his neck
down to the wound where the rib once was,
and yet, it tasted good
and it satisfied a hunger, even for a small while...
but that hunger would return periodically and with it
the dissatisfaction of the ages,
the ability to want something that is beyond the reach
of a simple stretch of the hand...
that knowledge
is the ultimate of discomfort,
because it is at once satisfying
and wanton,
fulfilling and emptying,
and perennial like the rains that create
and
destroy.
was already the precursor of our doom.
He categorized like a great library of the mind
those with fur or wings or hoofs,
segregating so that he might distinguish,
stereotype,
assume....
protect himself through knowledge.
And that knowledge
took the shape of an apple,
and it dripped a juice
that made its way down the crevices
of his face,
following his muscles in his neck
down to the wound where the rib once was,
and yet, it tasted good
and it satisfied a hunger, even for a small while...
but that hunger would return periodically and with it
the dissatisfaction of the ages,
the ability to want something that is beyond the reach
of a simple stretch of the hand...
that knowledge
is the ultimate of discomfort,
because it is at once satisfying
and wanton,
fulfilling and emptying,
and perennial like the rains that create
and
destroy.
July 1
Woke up in the evening
With the pound in my head
Trying to recall
When I crawled into bed.
But the stop watch stopped
Froze all time
And my dreams and reality
Were in perfect rhyme.
until my thoughts drifted
back to that thing
that got me into the sleep
and out of the ring.
narcoleptic escapes
just postpone the inevitable
and problems without solutions
just make things fall apart.
If I could only live
in the hypothetical
have solutions without problems
and things would come together.
But dreams without reality
and reality without dreams
are biased and hurtful,
are never what they seem.
So help me escape from my escaping.
Because narcoleptic escapes just postpone the inevitable
and I don't want to just live in the hypothetical.
With the pound in my head
Trying to recall
When I crawled into bed.
But the stop watch stopped
Froze all time
And my dreams and reality
Were in perfect rhyme.
until my thoughts drifted
back to that thing
that got me into the sleep
and out of the ring.
narcoleptic escapes
just postpone the inevitable
and problems without solutions
just make things fall apart.
If I could only live
in the hypothetical
have solutions without problems
and things would come together.
But dreams without reality
and reality without dreams
are biased and hurtful,
are never what they seem.
So help me escape from my escaping.
Because narcoleptic escapes just postpone the inevitable
and I don't want to just live in the hypothetical.